Apoptosis/Anorexia

Somewhere in the furrows of pink and gray flesh, nestled between delicate arches of pelvis, in what was supposed to be bowels and pulsating warmth, lies the wish for chemotherapy.

The old images of skull-white sundresses glimmering with the glory of summer days in the world of Perfect Thighs fester imperceptibly, buried in some remote corner of the midbrain which smells unpleasantly of half-digested chicken parmesan

and before you can forget the feeling of a taste that wasn't filled with antimetabolites and metastatic guilt you remember your mother balancing a salad fork between chalk fingers while the full plate in front of you reminds you of ruptured organs.